


Silence the Christmas Music

by eltrut07



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Music, Christmas Party, Holmes Family, M/M, surprise visit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 21:56:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3334259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eltrut07/pseuds/eltrut07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Holmes family gathers for the holidays and to attend Mummy's annual work Christmas Party. But when John's leave gets cancelled and he is stuck in Afghanistan for Christmas, the Holmes' are forced to endure an endless loop of sappy Christmas music courtesy of Sherlock, causing Mycroft to be at his wits' end. </p>
<p>Luckily Mummy always gets her boys what they want for Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence the Christmas Music

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I wrote up in December and forgot to post, and I figure now that it is almost Valentines Day- why not post a Christmas Fic?

“Will you turn that racket off?” Shouted Mycroft from the bottom of the staircase.

 

“Myc- really?” his mother tutted as she walked behind him, carrying an array of garment bags. Mycroft pursed his lips, scowling at the stairs but he turned sharply, gently taking the bags from his mother. “Now that’s my boy.” She rubbed a hand down his cheek and patted it lightly, walking towards the front hall of the house.

 

“And leave your brother alone.” She said quietly as they stopped beside the coat rack, his mother taking the bags from him and hanging them up. Of course, the university holiday party was that night. “You know how he gets when John is away.”

 

“The whole town knows about it.” Mycroft deadpanned, ignoring his mother’s amused snicker. “I don’t see how you could be amused by this. It is dreadful. “

 

Mrs. Holmes straightened up, shooting him a look that he often saw reflected in the mirror. “I had no idea you were so upset that your brother has been ignoring you. Just go up and talk to him if you miss him so much.”

 

“Funny.” Mycroft said, following his mother again as she walked in to the kitchen, something delicious wafting through the house. He perched himself on a stool and watched as she took out numerous trays from the oven, switching them for a few uncooked trays.  She was humming quietly as she moved around and Mycroft was completely baffled.

 

“I don’t see how you could possibly be so… _chipper_ , that music is _awful_.” Mycroft sneered, glaring up at the ceiling. His mother rolled her eyes, grabbing a cookie and tossing it at him.

 

“Have a cookie Mycroft.” She said, turning her back on him and fiddling with something else.

 

He grumbled but bit in to the cookie, he wasn’t an idiot after all. “I see father is hiding, not that I blame him.” Mycroft mumbled.

 

He watched as his mother paused, staring straight ahead for a moment before shooting him a warning look over her shoulder. “You know your father is helping the Crawlins down the road, honestly you deal with politicians all day, you can’t handle a few Christmas songs?” she snorted and turned back to her work.

 

“He has the same three songs on repeat. And he is blasting them. And it is all I can hear.” She nodded her head, rolling some dough in to some intricate pattern.

 

“I concede on that point.” She said, pausing to shoot him a warning look, “but don’t you go telling him to stop. This is how he deals with things. It’s not easy for him to be alone. You forget that I watched him when you went away to school, poor thing he was so lonely, bored all the time.” She took a breath, kneading more dough and working it with her fingers.

 

“I sincerely hope he didn’t spend the time blasting _Christmas_ songs.”

 

She turned around, her hands going on her hips and leveled him with a cool gaze. “That’s enough. You know how hard this is for him.”

 

“Yes, yes,” Mycroft said, rolling his eyes, “but does he have to act like such a love sick fool?”

 

Mrs. Holmes’ eyes softened and she glanced up at the ceiling this time, the sounds of “Blue Christmas” transitioning to “I’ll be Home for Christmas” echoing down to them. She pursed her lips at him and shot him an unimpressed look, Mycroft was shocked and he didn’t try to hide his expression.

 

“I had no idea. I never got a happy announcement.” He may have said it a tad petulantly, but honestly his brother couldn’t even tell him that he finally stopped his pining and confessed his feelings to John? How had his people missed this?

 

“No, no,” she paused, cocking her head, “at least I don’t think so. This is worse than last time though.” She muttered thoughtfully to herself.

 

“Indeed it is. Theories?”

 

“John was supposed to come home today for the holidays-he told Sherlock his tour was extended.” That would explain it. He was well aware of the odd co-dependency Sherlock and John had. He doubted that John would have ever joined the military if he hadn’t met Sherlock while already enlisted. And now John was stuck in Afghanistan, and Sherlock was blasting Christmas music.

 

Mycroft paused for a moment; his eyes going to his mother’s face and quickly taking in her mischievous eyes and carefully blank face. “John told Sherlock that he wasn’t coming home.” Mycroft said.

 

“Mmm he did.” Mrs. Holmes said as she traded another tray of baked goods from the oven. “And don’t look at me like that.” She said, placing the cookies on the island.

 

“I have no idea what you are accusing me of.” Mycroft said.

 

Mrs. Holmes rolled her eyes, taking off her apron and hanging it on the hook. “Yes you do. I didn’t raise you to play dumb, “

 

“Unless it was advantageous.” Mycroft interjected, catching a fond glare from his mother. “How did you do it?”

 

She smiled. “I made some calls. It’s nice to be a Holmes.” She said, grabbing decorative baskets from various cabinets in the kitchen, preparing to fill them with the various cookies she had baked.

 

“You are just encouraging him,” Mycroft opined, grabbing another cookie while her back was turned.

 

“I saw that,” she said and turned around, giving him an un-amused look at the cookie hanging out of his mouth. “I am his mother, it is my job to encourage him. My baby has made it blatantly clear what he wanted for Christmas, and I always give my children what they want.”

 

Mycroft scrunched his nose at the sentiment, shooting her a bland smile. “Yes well your other son would like that music turned off.”

 

She clapped her hands together once. “Go get dressed, we are going to be late.”

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes, knowing they were nowhere near being late. “Yes Mummy.”

 

**

 

Sherlock barely contained his scowl as another one of his mother’s co-workers’ children came up to him, trying to make pointless small talk. As if he cared about what mindless chatter they were spouting at him, he despised small talk. Unless he was trying to find out something, but he highly doubted the environmental studies major in front of him, droning on about global warming and the atmosphere would prove even the slightest bit interesting.

 

Mycroft glided up beside him, holding out a hand and shaking Global Warming’s hand. “Marcus how is your Aunt Dora? I hope her surgery went well,” Global warming nodded, launching in to some story about how she slipped in a store and broke her hip.

 

Trust Mycroft to make a dreadful conversation even worse. He barely resisted announcing to everyone that Global Warming was ironically a chain smoker and a bit of a pyromaniac. Sherlock paused, maybe he was slightly interesting, “I thought about becoming a barrister in light of it all, think of how dreadful it was for poor Aunt Dora…she deserves some retribution.”

 

Certainly not interesting.

 

Sherlock gasped in mock-horror, Mycroft rolling his eyes as his brother held a hand up to his mouth, “But then who would save the world from poisonous toxins in the air which you claim to know a great deal about, a complete lie, judging by the fact that you haven’t stepped foot in a science lab or read a book since adolescence, and are more interested in the topic because you saw it as an easy way to a degree, which you are just so desperate to achieve, possibly because your brother- whom your parents adore much more than you, dropped out of college to start his own business, or possibly because it is what everyone around you has told you to do.” Sherlock paused, ignoring Mycroft’s exasperated look, and the slightly stunned man in front of him, “a word of advice, from me, a graduate chemist, to you, a hopeless fool,” Sherlock leaned in close, but not close enough that the maneuver would be mistaken for anything intimate or friendly, “it is highly doubtful that you, as dimwitted as you are, will be able to single-handedly have an effect on the global warming crisis, but if you insist by all means, start with yourself, an arsonist preaching about global warming won’t be taken very seriously.”

 

“Everyone gather round! Secret Santa time!”

 

Sherlock didn’t try to contain the growl like sigh of annoyance that came from his mouth. Mycroft raised a judgmental eyebrow beside him, but Sherlock ignored him. He had no idea how and why Mycroft put up with all of the irritating pleasantries, it was all so tedious.

 

Marcus walked away, still gaping and confused, in that stunned way that only Sherlock was able to cause.

 

“I assumed you would have enjoyed a discussion with an arsonist. You are so fond of criminals these days.”

 

Sherlock sneered, Mycroft always felt the need to butt in to his life and prove his control over London and its CCTV system. “Spying on me again brother?” Sherlock hissed, “how tedious of you. And for your information, that man was a sheep, mindlessly herded around by others. He lights fires because he is an idiot, not for science, not with criminal intent, and certainly not to study the effects of the carcinogens in the air and how they relate to global warming.”

 

“Hmm. Yes, an arsonist who wants to stop global warming, quite an oxymoron.”

 

“Just plain moron.”

 

Mycroft smiled softly as they walked over to the group of people where they were all forming a circle around the piles of presents that everyone had brought. “Somewhat akin to someone who made the Hippocratic oath and then became a soldier.”

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, the desire to lay in to Mycroft, about all the little insecurities he knew his brother possessed, ate at him but he somehow kept his mouth shut. Mycroft raised his eyebrows, surprised that his little brother didn’t bite his head off and go storming away in a petulant huff.

 

Maybe he was in the Christmas spirit.

 

“I understand you have been put in an unfortunate circumstance with John being stuck overseas, but do you think it possible for one night to pretend to be cordial to Mummy’s work friends?” Sherlock opened his mouth but Mycroft ignored him and sauntered away towards their parents. Sherlock closed his mouth and turned back to the pointless festivities. 

 

He never understood why people placed such an emphasis on being polite and making small talk with others. He understood the concept of networking, but why talk and pretend to like someone you had zero desire to be around? He would much rather spend time with people he actually liked.

 

_You mean me you git. I am the only one you like to spend time with._

 

“Shut up.” Sherlock muttered, shooting a fake-embarrassed look at the mousy looking girl who had been standing beside him. He should probably not talk to himself out loud, especially not at Mummy’s Office party.

 

This was getting out of hand. He wished he could get John’s voice out of his head.

 

_No you don’t. You were the one that put my voice in your mind palace so you could listen to it when you wanted to, you berk._

 

“Irrelevant.” He said, and the pudgy man who had been consuming too much eggnog turned to him.

 

“Sorry?”

 

Sherlock scrunched up his face in what he hoped was a smile. “Elephant.” Sherlock said, pointing to the man who had just unwrapped a crystalline elephant.

 

“Oh, well look at that! I hope I get something like that- haven’t done too well with my wife- might be sleeping on the couch when she sees her gifts this year. Women are just so-“

 

Sherlock stared straight ahead, every inch of his body screaming at him to get out of this dreadful environment. He couldn’t stand this. It was all so _dull._ Everyone standing around, mindlessly picking gifts that no one had wanted to buy and had ran around yesterday, or this morning purchasing. What a horrid tradition.

 

He needed to figure out how to get to Afghanistan. He couldn’t tolerate this mundane world without John beside him, not anymore.  

 

The man stopped speaking and Sherlock blinked, noticing that nearly everyone else had unwrapped their gifts, and only he and Married Eggnog were left. “You mind mate?” the man asked, pointing to very sparkly wrapped box, bigger than the non descript, hastily wrapped present beside it.

 

“Not at all,” Sherlock said, proud of his restraint from verbally tearing this man apart and divulging all of his secrets, after all he really didn’t want to upset Mummy.

 

The gift ended up being some strange candle contraption but married eggnog certainly looked pleased with his soon to be re-gifted candle. “Last but not least!” Boasted one of his mother’s drunken colleagues and Sherlock gave a fake smile as he saw Mummy across from him, smiling happily with his father beside her.

 

He kept the smile on his face, bending down to pick up the small square; it was about the size of his palm, terribly wrapped with plain brown paper. He was instantly intrigued, who had put this gift down here, at a Christmas party where everyone seemed so concerned about what others perceived. Either it was a bout of laziness or it was something interesting. Sherlock slowly spun it; it looked like someone had wrapped it while moving- possibly walking but the package was wrapped well enough that it was clear whoever had wrapped it had been able to use both of their hands and pay attention to their task, so more likely in a moving vehicle.

 

He heard Mycroft clear his throat and he remembered where he was. He quickly ripped the paper, who was he kidding; there was no one here that had a hidden agenda, wrapped up in brown paper. He was so bored with this that he was starting to twist facts to try and make it more interesting; he was literally lowering his I.Q. here.

 

His eyes narrowed as he looked at the pack of gum underneath the paper.

 

“What is it?” asked someone. Sherlock ignored them; staring at the package- maybe this was interesting. This was the gum that John chewed. There was writing on the other side of the package and he flipped it and read the familiar handwriting, his heart jumping in his throat.

 

_Not a clue from a murderer-sorry. Turn around._

Sherlock spun around, and was met with the exquisite sight of John Watson in his military fatigues. His hair was recently cut short, about a week ago, he hadn’t slept in almost twenty three hours, he ate something quick in the airport but nothing of substance, he had bags under his eyes, and he looked like he had been through hell but it was the most wonderful thing Sherlock had seen in months.

 

“John.” He said, his voice deep and yet breathy.

 

“Happy Christmas Sherlock.” John said- voice warm, tired, but undeniably happy, and in that moment Sherlock wanted to wrap himself in a sweater made of John’s voice and wear it through winter.

 

**

 

“This is awful.” Mycroft muttered, ignoring the harsh _shush_ from beside him. “It is not only embarrassing to watch, but it is also mesmerizing in the oddest of ways.” Mycroft commented, watching as Sherlock just stared dumbfounded at the cheerful John Watson.

 

“That is love for you.” His father commented quietly, squeezing his wife’s hand gently.

 

“Your father is right, we have to let these things run their course.” Mrs. Holmes nodded to herself. All around her the rest of her colleagues were all gushing about their gifts, joking around with each other and sipping on wine and liquor. It was amazing how everyone else was going on as if his son wasn’t having his Christmas miracle come true.

 

Of course she had told them that she needed everyone to avoid the little brown package, and to let her son open it. And after one glace at the hastily wrapped object, none of them had seen a problem with it. All they knew was that her son’s military friend was surprising him for Christmas. They had all commented on how lovely a story that was, but really after the initial reveal it was obvious none were invested in anything more. Unlike the three Holmes that stood across the room, watching the youngest Holmes gape like a fish while John stared at him, his smile slowly fading as Sherlock failed to say anything.

 

Mrs. Holmes cursed, internally, as brilliant as her boys were, neither of them were any good when it came to their own social relationships.

 

A motorized plane went across her vision as she watched the awkward reunion across the room. She narrowed her eyes as she saw the man who was navigating the airplane. And suddenly a brilliant idea came to her and she clapped her hands together once.

 

“Or, we could get this show on the road,” she said practically skipping away. Mycroft raised an eyebrow looking down at his dad but the man just chuckled good-naturedly.

 

“Don’t look at me Myc, you know I never know what’s going in her head. You have a better chance with that than I ever will.”

 

**

 

“I knew you were going to be shocked but, I wasn’t expecting….” John trailed off, Sherlock was standing still, almost frozen looking as he stared intently at John, disbelief, shock, and dare he say it- happiness on his face…his unmoving face. “Sherlock- I am getting a bit of a complex here. I did just fly across a continent to see you,”

 

Sherlock blinked. “John.” He said again, tilting his head slightly. “Are you really here? How are you here- it is highly improbable,” he asked.

 

John giggled. “Really? You are asking me that? Isn’t that your line- eliminate the impossible and whatever is left, no matter how improbable is the truth?”

 

Sherlock’s lip twitched and he opened his mouth but paused, eyes narrowing as he watched a red motorized plane toy fly around them. John looked up and chuckled, watching as the plane circled them. “Someone is having a laugh.” John said, looking back at Sherlock.

 

But Sherlock wasn’t looking at him; his eyes were fixed upon the device, or rather what was hanging off of it. “John- is that?”

 

John squinted, trying to get a look as the plane flew around their heads. Sherlock knew the second that he realized what it was, he straightened his back, his hands clenching for a moment, back ramrod straight, full military posture in effect. Sherlock almost purred at the sight.

 

“That is,” John cleared his throat, licked his lips and nodded his head, “yeah that is mistletoe. Someone is definitely having a laugh.”

 

John smiled and looked at Sherlock, about to make a joke but he snapped his mouth shut when he noted that Sherlock was a breath away, and with one more step they were chest to chest. “Uh, Sherlock….” John said questioningly.

 

“It’s tradition John.” Sherlock said before he leaned down, gently, and finally kissing his best friend, his body tingling and his chest warm with something far better than Christmas cheer.

 

**

 

Mycroft had his arms crossed and was giving his mother a pointed look. “I thought we weren’t to interfere.”

 

She waved him off, her face happy as she watched Sherlock grab John’s hand and practically run from the hall, going to catch a cab back to the house no doubt. “It’s Christmas Mycroft, don’t ruin my fun.” She turned to smile at him and her husband. “And don’t you worry- you will be next Christmas.”

 

Mycroft blanched and his parents laughed. “I do believe we will be staying for desert my dears.” His father said softly and his mother barked out a laugh.

 

“Hmm yes, and drinks afterwards as well.” Mycroft deadpanned.

 

“You two!” Mrs. Holmes chuckled, and the three of them stood, occasionally talking to people that approached them but mostly standing back and observing as everyone around them got progressively more drunk.

 

“I love Christmas.” Mrs. Holmes sighed.

 

**

 

The lights were off in the house when they pulled up to the front door and Mycroft cautiously opened it, not wanting to catch his brother in the act of…well. He grimaced stepping forward slowly but relaxing as he noted the absolute silence from the house. There was no television on, no mindless chatter, no drunken yammering, and most of all there was no bloody Christmas music blasting.

 

For the first time all day his body sagged, his ears singing their praise as they were met with nothing but the natural sounds of his childhood home.

 

Beside him his mother wrapped him in a hug. “I told you I always get my boys what they want for Christmas.”

 

**


End file.
